


The Coat

by hamish_adler_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, This is sad sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:55:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2149842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamish_adler_holmes/pseuds/hamish_adler_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly brings John Sherlock's coat.  Post-Reichenbach weirdness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coat

**Author's Note:**

> My [Twitter](https://twitter.com/johnxlock)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://iamsherlockedwatson.tumblr.com/)

John stares at the coat. Who knew that one single item of clothing could cause him so much pain? It was the only thing they had let him keep. Granted, there were three others tucked away somewhere in the flat. But this one still had his scent, still had his scarf tucked into one of the pockets.

He smiled, thinking of how dramatic Sherlock had always been. Sweeping around in that great coat, turning corners and whipping it out behind him. Popping the collar so it framed his cheekbones. John had teased him for that once, but secretly he found it absolutely adorable. Funny, that he could apply the word 'adorable' to Sherlock Holmes. Yet somehow, when he thought of Sherlock swooping around in his Belstaff, John smiled, his chest tightening.

  
The smile melted though, as he thought of the last time he saw the coat moving that way. Sherlock was standing on the ledge, his arm outstretched, asking for John to watch. And so John was forced to watch the man he loved kill himself.

  
Like all other things Sherlock did, it was beautiful. He seemed to stay suspended in the air for a moment, his coat whipping around, before plummetting, his arms and legs working to keep him in the air for just a moment longer. There was nothing John could do but watch, his heart in his stomach, as Sherlock neared the ground and was cut from his vision behind the ambulance station.

  
Before he was even fully aware, he was moving, running towards the place where Sherlock was. He half expected to round the corner and see Sherlock there, tapping away at his phone and hailing a taxi, and when he sprinted around the corner he saw the body lying on the ground and he wanted to die. Never had he wanted to die more than he did at that moment. But he kept moving, his hand reaching out to Sherlock's, touching him one last time before he fell back into the crowd of faceless strangers.

  
A few days later, he was sat in his chair staring across at Sherlock's empty one. He heard a knock on the door and he jerked his head, leaping to his feet and trotting over. He jerked the door open and saw the dark fabric and his heart jumped-but it was only Molly, the coat over her arm. She saw his face change, and she smiled weakly and held the coat out.

  
"He wanted-would have wanted you to have this. You know how he is-er, was about this thing." He took it numbly, nodding and trying to force a smile. She stood there for another moment, opening her mouth as if she was going to talk before turning sharply and taking off down the stairs.  
John looked down at the fabric in his arms. He held it up, pushing his face into it and inhaling deeply. He could still smell Sherlock, his scent of smoke and rain and London, and he smiled for a moment and heard the distant echo of his laugh, felt the brush of his hands through John's hair briefly before the moment was gone. He took the coat to the chair and lay it there, sitting down in his own and staring.

  
Now, days later, he was still here, not having touched it since. He stood and reached to touch it, pulling it to himself. He fell to his knees, holding it close and burying his face in it. He choked out Sherlock's name before he started crying, sobs that tore at his chest and left him breathless. He wanted this to be a dream, he wanted none of this to be real. Sherlock, his Sherlock, he couldn't be dead, he couldn't do this to John.

  
He wouldn't.

  
He cried for what seemed like hours, eventually moving to the sofa. He held the coat to himself as he fell asleep.

         --  
Sherlock stood outside the flat. He stared into the window, saw lights and movement. He stepped closer, pressing himself flat against the building so he couldn't be seen. His hair was cut short and his curls flattened, and he had the start of a beard. He waited for a while then stepped to the door of the flat, taking a deep breath and stepping in. He moved up the stairs silently, knowing how to avoid the creaks in the steps.

  
He listened just outside the door to the flat, holding his breath so he could hear John. All he heard was deep breathing, the occasional snore, and his name thrown into the mix. His heart hurt, but he stepped in.

  
When he saw John, asleep on the sofa with his coat curled loosely in his arms, he almost ran and woke the other man. He yearned to stroke the soft hair, to press a kiss to John's forehead. But he knew that if he showed himself now, there was still the chance of Moriarty's men killing the three he had done so much to protect. He crouched down, looking into John's sleeping face. He looked horrible, his hair mussed and stubble shadowing the lower half of his face.

  
Sherlock took the coat gently from John's grasp and tucked the letter inside, then draped it softly over his sleeping lover. He wanted to say goodbye, to wake him and tell him everything was okay, and he reached a hand out. But Moriarty's voice echoed in his head, the promise of John's death. He jerked his hand away and watched John sleep for a moment more before he heard movement downstairs and knew he had to leave before Mrs. Hudson came to check in on him.

  
He gave John one more look, his heart breaking into two, and he stepped away, each step hurting more and more until he was out of the building, tears warm against the cold wind and his chest hurting like never before as he wrapped his arms around himself and left the only home he had ever known.

  
      --  
John woke, warm and happier than he had been in weeks. Sherlock's scent was all around him and for a moment he was confused, thinking he had worked his way to Sherlock's room last night, but when he sat up he realized. The coat fell from him, leaving him in the cold air of the flat. He hissed and yanked it towards him, putting it around his shoulders. He tucked it tightly against himself and stood, laughing a bit at how long it was on him. He did an experimental spin and laughed louder now as it billowed out around his calves. He put out his arms and continued turning, his laughs drawing Mrs. Hudson. She came up the stairs and when she saw John there with his arms out, she let out a strangled sound that was the mix of a laugh and tears. She smiled and turned away, but John stopped.  
He let his arms fall against his body and heard paper crinkling. Confused, he repeated the motion, and again the sound of paper. He reached into one pocket and pulled out a crinkled envelope.

  
His heart raced as he turned it over and saw his name in Sherlock's writing. He ran his hand along the ink before turning the envelope over and flipped it open, pulling out a small piece of paper.

  
 _"It's all a trick._  
 _Love, Sherlock"_

His heart dropped. Fresh tears leaked out of his swollen eyes and he closed them, pressing the paper to his chest before gently tucking it back into the envelope and then into the coat.

  
"I wish it were, Sherlock. You know I do."

  
He tilted his head up, breathing out a heavy sigh, before laying down again on the sofa, holding the jacket close as he cried.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys x


End file.
